


The Glass Case

by chamyl



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Aziraphale is a bitch and we love him so much, Biting, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Hair-pulling, Humor, I mean there is a sliver of a plot if you squint, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love, M/M, Masturbation, Nude Photos, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Romance, Sexting, Switch Aziraphale (Good Omens), Switch Crowley (Good Omens), Tenderness, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Top Crowley (Good Omens), Voyeurism, Wall Sex, Wings, bit of an indifference kink, demons in glasscases are closer than they appear, switch rights baby, technically bookshelves sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:40:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21783097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamyl/pseuds/chamyl
Summary: “So, will you admit your little pastime backfired and that you now need my help to get out?”Crowley shifts back, pursing his lips. “You know what, angel?” He sits down again, back against the black corner of the glass case. “I’m in no rush. You’ll want me out of here, sooner or later.”Aziraphale snaps his fingers, miracling a pillow into existence right under the demon’s butt. He gives him a calm, composed smile. “Make yourself comfortable, dear.”💎The one where Crowley ends up trapped in a human-sized glass case and Aziraphale won’t let him out.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 83
Kudos: 526





	The Glass Case

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: _no touch_.

Con: coffeehouse chains owned by big corporations are cold, soulless, and lack the quaint charm and uniqueness of family-owned cafes.

Pro: having one so close to the bookshop means Aziraphale can get a treat pretty much at any time of the day without having to miracle one himself.

Con: the availability of the establishment's free wireless internet connection attracts many university students who, inevitably, end up poking their noses into the bookshop.

Pro: Crowley has been bored to death, and having young humans around keeps him entertained.

Con: the students come in looking for books relevant to their courses, but Crowley has been diverting them towards the black magic texts instead, a big grin on his face as he gets the chance to revel in some low-level mischief.

Pro: university students are too broke to even think about affording any of Aziraphale’s books, so there is no risk of them trying to buy anything.

Aziraphale weighs all these facts in his head as he watches Crowley bark out a laugh, sitting down at a small table surrounded by three young men. The angel has to smile. Since they bridged the gap that had kept them apart for 6000 years, Crowley has found excuse after excuse to never leave his side. 

_I’m giving the Bentley a day off._

_It’s cold as hell, angel, and I don’t really have to be anywhere._

_You need me around to scare away persistent customers, don’t you?_

It’s not as if Aziraphale minds the company, not at all. But he’d still like to retain some semblance of a routine, and therefore he'll still open the shop a few times a week – on his own schedule,a schedule nobody but him understands, but he’ll open it anyway. 

His demon is currently having lots of fun showing students some forgotten, ancient texts that promise to teach readers how to summon Paimon, the King of Hell who has the power to grant mortals unlimited knowledge. The young humans seem to be hanging onto every word from his lips – a testament to their frayed state of mind, no doubt. 

Aziraphale sighs, bringing a box of mint crisps from his desk to the students. A sugary snack will help their grades much more than whatever game Crowley is playing right now. The demon grins up at him as Aziraphale deposits the box in the middle of the table, certainly satisfied with himself for getting his angel’s attention at last.

Aziraphale purses his lips at this smugness and makes a decision. He turns around and gets a little black book from a high shelf. He blows dust off it and hands it over to the humans. Its pages are curled up and yellow with age, and a thin strip of blood red fabric bookmarks a very specific chapter.

“Allow me to recommend this one,” Aziraphale says with a polite, practiced smile, which becomes just a little sharp at the edges as he glances in Crowley’s direction. “The most accurate text concerning the summoning of demons ever written.”

The humans glance at the small book, then at one another. There’s Dave, the leader of the group, a very loud 20-year-old man with long, wavy hair and the tendency to crack his neck and knuckles every few minutes. Ron, to his left, is the most excitable of the three and his brown eyes, behind a pair of big glasses, are already wide with wonder at the sight of the mysterious little book. And then there’s Nick, the silent one, who mostly keeps to himself and could possibly stare down Satan himself with his icy blue gaze.

The boys _ooh_ all at the same time and lean over the book, where an ancient ritual is described in great detail – albeit in Old English.

“What do you think, Mr. Crowley?” Ron asks. “Could this really work?”

Crowley is pinned down by three sets of curious young eyes. “I, uh, I’ve never seen this before, I don’t—”

“I advise you to tread carefully, gentlemen.” Aziraphale cuts him off. “This is quite dangerous ground you’re exploring. Demon summoning is nothing to joke about.”

His words, obviously, have exactly the intended effect, and Crowley grabs the book from the boys and reads it aloud, translating it as he goes. The three humans listen, enraptured, as he lists off a very precise list of tools: candles made only with the purest wax, some peculiar kitchenware such as silver bowls and stone blades, and other random items like rock salt, pig's blood, and Lagavulin whisky. The last two on the list, Aziraphale is sure, aren’t mentioned in the book at all, and he’d be willing to bet Crowley has thrown them in just to do things _with style_. Not that Aziraphale has ever quite figured out what that means, exactly.

A week later, everything is in place for the boys’ first demon summoning. Aziraphale has, reluctantly, closed up shop and let them move some furniture around to get enough room for their ritual. Curtains closed, he gives them the go-ahead nod. A glance at Crowley’s relaxed stance tells him that the demon has not yet figured out what’s about to happen.

Dave stirs the pig blood in the silver bowl with a wooden spoon he’s stolen from his mom’s kitchen. Aziraphale nudges a stack of books just a little farther away. Ron recites a summoning spell. Crowley pours the salt in a large, perfect square on the floor. Nick lights the last candle.

Just then, the light is sucked out from the bookshop, plunging it into darkness. All the lamps go out at the same time, not a single ray of sun is allowed to peek through the curtains. The temperature drops all of a sudden, frosting up the glass of the windows. The boys scream, huddling together behind a couch, their shouting drowned out by a deafening whooshing sound, as if a tornado was tearing up the inside of the shop. Not a single book is disturbed in the process.

Crowley’s jaw drops open, but he only has a second to notice Aziraphale’s smug little grin before he’s jerked forward by an invisible force and into the square of salt he drew himself.

As the building shakes, something sprouts from the floor all around him: four thin walls, trapping Crowley inside them.

When the dust settles, the demon is enclosed in a huge glass case smack in the middle of the bookshop. Aziraphale smooths down his worn-out waistcoat and steps closer.

The glass case has a square black base – obsidian, Aziraphale would guess at first glance – coming up to the angel’s knee, elevating Crowley a few feet off the floor. Its four walls rise all the way up to the ceiling. Two of them appear to be made of regular glass, while the other two are matte black and completely opaque. Crowley has been knocked off his feet and sits in the dark corner where the black walls meet, blinking behind his crooked sunglasses, mouth hanging open in surprise.

Their eyes meet as the demon stands up, and Aziraphale doesn’t tuck away his little smirk quickly enough.

“You—” Crowley starts, but is interrupted by a strangled whimper coming from somewhere behind Aziraphale’s back.

Right, the humans. They’d forgotten about them.

Aziraphale whirls around, bringing a hand over his mouth as he turns to the three boys peeking from behind his couch, terror written all over their faces.

“Oh, poor me!” The angel exclaims, feigning the most horrified tone he can muster. “Anthony J. Crowley, my long-time friend and most trusted confidant… he was a wily demon from Hell all along!”

Crowley, behind him, shoots him a less-than-impressed glare.

Dave, Ron, and Nick slowly come out from their hiding spot. They stay close together and keep themselves as far from the glass case as physically possible.

Dave blabbers something unintelligible, so Ron takes the lead. “W-what just happened?”

“Ah, young man,” Aziraphale sighs. “I did warn you, did I not? These rituals are dangerous. You did succeed in summoning a demon… alas, as it turns out, the closest demon available was none other than our dear Crowley!”

Ron gapes at him like a fish. After a few moments, Nick pushes his friends towards the door. “That’s very… cool, Mr. Fell. We really have to go now, so we’ll get our stuff and be out of your hair. Right, guys?”

The other two nod, quickly grabbing their bags and scrambling for the door.

“Good Lord, whatever will I do?” Aziraphale laments as he coolly picks up Dave’s scarf and hands it to him, making sure they forget nothing in their rush. “An actual demon! In my bookshop! What a terrible, unforeseen event!”

The three humans utter their goodbyes and run out like mice on a sinking ship. The bookshop’s door politely locks behind them.

“Your acting is atrocious.” Crowley comments as soon as Aziraphale turns back around to face him. “Thought it’d be a little better, with all the plays we’ve watched together.”

“Oh, I think it was good enough.” He gestures to the empty bookshop.

Crowley sighs and snaps his fingers. Nothing happens. He snaps again. Nothing happens. He keeps snapping as he mutters, “very funny, now get me out of here. This contraption seems to be neutralizing my powers.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to interfere with your hobbies, dear.” Aziraphale gives him a closed lipped smile as he picks up Crowley’s phone from the table and comes closer to the glass case. He notices that the walls don’t quite touch at the corners, leaving just enough of a gap for him to slip the phone through. “But you could play with this if you do get bored.”

Crowley picks up the phone and stares at it as if he’s never seen it in his life. When he looks back up, Aziraphale has settled into his favourite armchair, an open book in his lap and a cup of miraculously steaming cocoa in his left hand.

He makes a completely undignified, incomprehensible sound as his mouth tries to remember how to form words.

“Angel?” He taps against the glass with his free hand. “All right, you’ve had your fun, now let me out.”

Aziraphale turns a page. “Was I the one who put you in there, Crowley?”

Crowley frowns. “No.”

Aziraphale takes a sip of cocoa. “Did I warn you this wasn’t a good idea?”

“Yes.” Crowley deadpans.

“Did you go ahead and do it anyway?”

“ _Obviously_.” The demon answers mockingly.

“So, will you admit your little pastime backfired and that you now need my help to get out?”

Crowley shifts back, pursing his lips. “You know what, angel?” He sits down again, back against the black corner of the glass case. “I’m in no rush. You’ll want me out of here, sooner or later.”

Aziraphale snaps his fingers, miracling a pillow into existence right under the demon’s butt. He gives him a calm, composed smile. “Make yourself comfortable, dear.”

* * *

When Crowley blinks himself awake he realises he must have fallen asleep with his head against the glass. His sunglasses are on top of his head and he’s drooled a little. He wipes his face dry with the back of a hand, opens and closes his mouth a few times, eyes immediately seeking Aziraphale. Crowley can’t be sure whether the angel moved at all while he was sleeping, since Aziraphale is still sitting in his stupid armchair with his stupid book.

Clearly, waiting for the angel to free him isn’t going to work. It’s time to change tack and try again.

“Hey, angel.” Crowley crawls forward, knocking on the glass. “How about dinner? Want to go somewhere nice?”

“It’s morning.” Aziraphale replies, wetting his fingers with his tongue and turning a page. “And no, thank you.”

Crowley sprawls back, propping himself up with both hands against the cold obsidian surface beneath him. “What about a little day trip? I heard of a winery down in—”

“It’s too cold, Crowley. I would really rather stay indoors.” Aziraphale replies with a prim eyebrow raise, without looking at him.

Crowley scoffs. There has to be _something_ he can tempt the angel with.

Well.

There’s always the obvious.

He looks down to check what he’s working with.

He grins when he remembers that yesterday, along with his snakeskin boots and tight jeans, he’d also decided to don Aziraphale’s favourite sweater. Not that Aziraphale has ever said so aloud, but whenever Crowley wears this particular piece of clothing – a black, merino wool sweater with a wide scoop neck that sometimes slips off, baring one shoulder – he can feel the angel’s eyes lingering on him just a little too intensely for just a little too long.

Honestly, getting Aziraphale’s attention when he’s busy with his books is nothing short of a Herculean task. Good thing Crowley has been training.

He takes off one of his shoes and makes sure to drop it with a loud thud. Aziraphale doesn’t raise his gaze, but his eyebrow twitches.

“What are you up to?” He asks, eyes glued to the book.

“Making myself comfortable.” Crowley replies with a smirk, taking off the other shoe and both socks. He wriggles himself out of his jeans and, completely naked from the waist down, sits back on the pillow.

His smirk widens when he sees Aziraphale standing up – and then drops as the angel goes to sit on another chair, farther away, his back turned to Crowley.

The demon rests his forehead against the glass, fogging it up with a frustrated sigh.

Out of sheer habit, he picks up his phone, scrolling through his apps to look for something to pass the time. Just as he’s thinking he might as well put his clothes back on and avoid embarrassing himself further, he gets an idea.

* * *

A few seconds later, one of the drawers in Aziraphale’s desk pings. Well, it’s not really the drawer that pings, but rather the mobile phone he’s stashed in there and never looked at again since Crowley gave it to him. Fortunately, the angel has never realised that mobile phones have an internal battery that doesn’t last forever so, when he stands up and rummages inside his drawer to get his phone, he finds it fully charged. There is exactly one notification: Crowley has sent a picture.

Aziraphale sneaks a finger inside the collar of his shirt and loosens his bow tie a little bit as he looks at it. It is, as humans would say, a ‘selfie’. Crowley is wearing nothing but his black sweater – Aziraphale’s favourite, the one that leaves one of his shoulders bare. Oh, the angel has never said so aloud, it’s quite embarrassing really – but the naked curve of Crowley’s shoulder is more tempting than any apple. He can just picture himself biting down on it, possibly while one of his hands pulls at the demon’s hair and the other sneaks underneath the sweater, touching Crowley’s— 

_Anyway._

In the picture, Crowley is wearing nothing but his sweater. One of his hands holds the phone high over his head, while the other is pulling the sweater down between his bare open legs. Aziraphale can’t quite see anything _obscene_ , and yet the implication is very clearly there. He swallows as he pulls on his bow tie a little more.

Maybe it’s Crowley’s face that gets to him the most. Golden eyes staring straight into the camera, a request and an invitation at the same time. Mouth open, snake tongue out – shamelessly glistening in the light. A suggestion – a provocation.

Aziraphale debates what to do only for a second before deciding that he will go sit back down, but that the phone is coming with him. He slides it in the pocket of his trousers, which gives him the chance to notice the phone isn’t the only bulge upsetting the fabric of his pants. Well… that’s just one more reason to keep quiet and pretend to be reading, isn’t it?

His eyes glide over the same line half a dozen times before his phone pings again. He resists a whole three seconds before his curiosity gets the better of him and he pulls it out of his pocket. In the new picture, Crowley is lying on his back, the phone on the floor to his right. His face is turned to the camera, an eyebrow raised. His knee is pulled up to his chest against the black sweater, showing the side of his leg, thigh, hip. The picture is cropped just so that Aziraphale can’t quite see the curve of his arse. Crowley’s lips are slightly pursed, curled into an amused little smirk. As if he knew perfectly well the effect he’s having on his lover with these pictures.

Oh, but Crowley really is so beautiful. It wasn’t until recently that Aziraphale could actually let his gaze linger on him for more than a few seconds. And to have pictures, now, that he will be able to look back on whenever he wants? It feels too good to be true.

Literally, it feels _too_ good. Aziraphale clears his throat and drops his phone between his knees, hiding it under the book, as if that could help matters at all.

Everything is quiet for a few minutes, just enough for him to think that Crowley has given up – and then a long, languid moan behind him almost makes him jump out of his skin. Aziraphale’s posture – as well as _other things_ – stiffens in his seat. Oh, but surely Crowley isn’t—could he? Well, of course he could. 

Another moan, a little longer, a little more breathless.

“Angel…”

Aziraphale presses his lips into a thin line and grips the book a bit too hard. He’s not hearing anything except Crowley’s lewd moaning, which means the demon is probably touching himself gently, maybe running his hands down his chest, under his sweater… or is he already naked, his fingers around his cock? Maybe he’s stroking himself softly, slowly…

Aziraphale almost falls out of his chair when his phone pings again. He closes the book and drops it on the nearest surface. Then, he opens the picture.

Crowley is standing up, completely naked. The angle is low, very low; he must be holding his phone against his thigh. Aziraphale’s mouth drops open as his gaze slides over the tight muscles of the demon’s lower belly, the sharp lines of his abdomen, his lovely chest with the pert, dark nipples, his wide, round shoulders. Crowley’s head is tilted back so that Aziraphale can’t see his face, but only the taut skin of his throat, the outline of his Adam’s apple jutting out slightly, just begging for the angel to run his tongue over its curve. And, judging from the position of Crowley’s other arm, alongside his chest and across his hip, his other hand must be…

“ _Angel_ —” Crowley calls out, louder, and Aziraphale has to take a quick, sharp breath. He’d forgotten Crowley is so good at tempting him. Most of the time, the angel doesn’t even realise he’s being tempted. An invitation for a meal turns into an invitation for drinks turns into whatever Crowley was trying to convince him to do from the start.

It’s a siren’s call. He knows. He thought it’d be satisfying to leave Crowley stuck in the glass case for a while, teach him a little lesson, and he’s aware that turning to face him now will have the opposite effect.

But he can’t help it, the magnetic pull is too strong for him to resist, and he’s never been particularly good at turning down a temptation in the first place. He goes back to the armchair closest to the demon and sits down, the only spectator in a show for one person only. Crowley is standing with one hand against the glass and the other around his hard cock, jerking himself off. When they lock eyes, the demon’s tongue darts out to wet his lips.

* * *

It’s hard to judge how affected Aziraphale is from inside the glass case, particularly in Crowley’s dazed state. At first glance, the angel appears cool and collected. That almost impassive gaze shouldn’t be turning Crowley on even more, but it does. He can only think about how good it will feel to finally break the angel’s composure, make him pull out that nice erection he’s sporting inside his old trousers, grab onto it, maybe touch himself as the same time as Crowley does inside the glass case.

But Aziraphale sits, perfectly still, knees parted, apparently perfectly in control of his impulses. Crowley desperately seeks some sign that what he’s doing is working – beside the bulge in the angel’s pants, that is, which could be a mere physical reaction. It takes him a while, but he finds his evidence. Aziraphale’s hand is gripping the armrest a little too tight, his knuckles are pale on top. His bow tie has been loosened, allowing him to breathe more easily. There is a lovely flush on his pink angel cheeks. His other hand is on his thigh, curled into a fist, hovering just a little too close to his groin. Is Aziraphale barely resisting palming his cock through the fabric of his pants? _Fuck_ , Crowley hopes he is.

And then the demon loses focus again. He only meant to tease Aziraphale to free himself from the glass case but, now that he’s got into it, it feels so good, too good, touching himself under the angel’s gaze. As Aziraphale loves to say, evil contains the seeds of his own destruction or… whatever.

“Azira— _aah_ —” he closes his eyes as his head drops forward and he pumps harder, completely lost in it now, already savouring the praise he’ll get for giving Aziraphale a good show. _Oh_ _yes_ , he can almost hear it already. Aziraphale loves talking during sex, surely he’ll lavish compliments all over Crowley if he’s good enough for him. He’ll tell him how beautiful he looked, how he was so enticing that the angel just couldn’t stop himself from pulling out his own cock and touching himself at the sight. He’ll bend him over a desk and fuck him within an inch of his life, ‘punishing’ him for filling an angel’s mind with such filth.

Crowley comes hard against the wall with a strangled cry, splattering the glass in front of him with streak after streak of white, trembling as his orgasm rips through him, thrusting into the tight circle of his fingers hard and fast and then slower, slower, until he’s too soft and too sensitive and a weak whimper escapes his lips despite himself. His knees buckle under him. He drops back on the pillow, the hand still around his cock. Panting, he looks up at the mess dripping down the glass – just in time to catch Aziraphale standing up.

The angel can’t hide it now, especially not as he steps closer: he has a dazed look in his eyes that makes Crowley smirk. He’s succeeded. There are only two possible outcomes now: Aziraphale will free him and they’ll fuck, or he’ll jerk off in front of him and Crowley will get to watch. The demon would rather opt for the more hands-on experience, but he’s nothing if not flexible, and he’ll enjoy whatever he can get.

What he isn’t expecting is for Aziraphale to look at him through the glass, unbutton his trousers, smile, and step around the enclosure, hiding behind the two walls that are black as pitch.

Crowley doesn’t really stop and think about it – he stands up and pushes against the dark glass wall, forgetting for a moment it won’t respond to his will and move out of the way. He just wants to—get it out of the way and free himself, following Aziraphale wherever he’s going.

But, as he realises almost immediately, the angel hasn’t gone far at all: he must be just on the other side of the wall, judging from how close the noises he’s making sound. Crowley hears a soft, loose moan and his spent cock twitches between his legs. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck _fuck_ . Has Aziraphale decided to get off where he can’t see him? This possibility hadn’t even crossed his mind. Aziraphale whimpers and groans and _oh_ , this is downright torture.

Crowley sneaks his fingers in the narrow gap between the two black walls, like an idiot. It’s not as if he’ll be able to reach out and touch Aziraphale like this, will he? All he can do is plaster himself against the cold surface, drinking in every breath, every sound. Aziraphale’s voice sounds muffled now – is he covering his mouth with something? Maybe the back of his free hand?

The angel is going to drive him crazy. This is what’s happening. Aziraphale will leave him in the glass case and torture him until he’s lost his mind. Crowley is in love with a sadistic master of torture, and this will be his demise.

“Hmmm… _oh_ , Crowley…”

“Yes?” He asks, hoarsely, desperately shifting towards the corner so that he can look through the gap. It’s useless, he can’t see Aziraphale from there at all. He can hear him, though; he can hear the rough slapping of the angel’s hand against his cock. Aziraphale likes it a bit rough, and Crowley would like nothing more than to give it to him – if only he wasn’t trapped inside this stupid glass case.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale purrs again, and the demon vaguely wonders whether he’s not being called at all, whether this is just another way to torment him. If it is, it’s working. He’s hard again and his wings are itching to come out. His tongue has split at the tip and he presses his face into the gap. He pushes his tongue out to taste the air.

It smells like sex. It smells like Aziraphale. It smells like the angel’s cock would taste in his mouth. Oh, God—oh, Satan. 

Oh, _fuck_.

“Angel…” He calls, weakly, hopelessly, knowing better than anyone that if Aziraphale has set his mind to something he will never give it up. Not until the both of them are reduced to a wreck. Crowley already feels well on his way there.

He could touch himself again, he supposes – but the prospect is suddenly not at all enticing. What he wants is to touch and to be touched by his angel, and fuck him or be fucked by him or whatever – just, not alone. Not alone again, like he’s been for so long.

That thought is a sobering one, and he drops to his knees on the floor, forehead against the glass, the fingers of one hand still curled around the edge of the wall. Trying and failing to reach his angel.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale calls out after a few moments, a note of worry in his gravelly voice. Crowley tries to answer, but finds himself choked up. As he gapes like a fish, trying to gather himself enough to answer, the wall disappears and he falls forward.

* * *

Aziraphale catches Crowley by the shoulders before he can drop off the obsidian base of the glass case.

“My love.” He says, cradling the demon in his arms. “My darling. Are you—”

He’s cut off by Crowley’s hot, wet mouth on him, by a forked tongue slipping past his lips soft and frantic. The demon’s hands cling to him, one of on his cheek, one behind his neck, pulling at his curls, desperately, urgently. Crowley shifts to wrap his legs around the angel’s waist and Aziraphale, unthinkingly, hoists him up. Crowley moans against his lips, hungry and needy and holding onto him with all he’s got, and the angel’s composure breaks down; he turns around and pushes his lover up against the nearest bookshelf. A few books tumble down and he doesn’t even care, every atom of his being focused on Crowley writhing and mewling in his arms.

He distantly feels the demon forcefully tugging on his clothes but doesn’t register he’s being undressed until, all of a sudden, he finds himself skin to skin with him, his clothes having been miracled away to God-knows-where.

Crowley bites down into the angel’s shoulder and Aziraphale cries out, pressing harder against him, their cocks trapped between their bodies.

“Aziraphale, for… whoever’s sake,” Crowley growls, crossing his ankles behind the angel’s back and grinding against him. “Fuck me—or let me fuck you—just—something, please, or I’ll… it’ll be _very_ embarrassing for me _very_ soon.”

Aziraphale smothers a laugh into Crowley’s shoulder. “What about both?”

Crowley’s head snaps back with enough force to make the bookshelves shake, a loud thud echoing through the empty shop. He reaches up to hold on to a shelf with both hands. “ _Please_.”

Aziraphale shifts back a little, grabbing both of Crowley’s legs behind the knees and pulling them up. He licks his lips at the sight of his demon, almost bent in two against the bookshelves, panting, flushed, wrecked, begging through laboured breaths, throbbing cock dribbling all over his stomach.

The angel takes a steadying breath and sinks into him with a low, long, unrestrained noise. Crowley has made himself tight, slick, burning hot around him. Crowley has made himself perfect around him, meant to fit just right in every possible way they make love.

Because that’s what this is – making love. Sometimes it looks like whispering sweet nothings, taking it slow, and sometimes it looks like this instead: the desperate rush of now, now, _now_ , the overwhelming need, the desire to be together, give, receive, make each other shiver and come apart. There is no miracle quite like seeing Crowley the moment he comes, his beautiful features scrunched up in a frown, a low growl tearing from his throat. The most breathtaking sight on this planet.

Aziraphale pulls out and thrusts back in, harshly. Once, twice, several times in a row without pause. With every movement, his self-control frays a little more at the edges. Crowley moves against him like a man possessed, pulling himself up with both arms and dropping back down, fucking himself on Aziraphale’s cock and crying out curses and _angel_ and half-bitten words that make no sense at all.

It’s only a few minutes before Aziraphale realizes that, if they keep going like this, it will be over in mere seconds for him. He barely catches himself a moment before hurling over the edge, gritting his teeth and clawing at Crowley’s legs to keep himself from coming.

“Fuck.” He says, and the demon whimpers faintly at the word, clenching around his cock. “Wait—let’s… let’s take a breather before it’s too late. There’s more I want to do.”

He pulls out and Crowley makes a disgruntled noise, but allows the angel to disentangle them and put him back down.

“More you want to do…” Crowley reaches for him immediately, pulling him into a hug, his eyes closed as he mindlessly rubs himself against the angel. “Gluttony… hmm, that’s a sin, angel.” He says, feebly, his eyes closed and his skin scorching hot.

Aziraphale, still catching his breath, leans his forehead against his lover’s. “So is lust.”

Crowley’s smile is wobbly and happy and perfectly fitting for someone so completely drunk on love. “’M a demon.”

“You are. But ah, what is that lovely, cheeky thing you like to say?” Aziraphale presses a kiss on the top of his nose, and Crowley’s eyes flutter open to give him a crossed-eyed look. “You just _sauntered vaguely downwards_?”

Crowley makes an exasperated, embarrassed noise and hides his face against Aziraphale’s neck. “Your dirty talk needs some work, angel,” another grind of his hips, another moan, “what… what’s that even got to do with anything right now?”

“Just musing.” Aziraphale pets the back of Crowley’s neck and clears his throat. He would like his voice to be very, very steady now. Or, at least, as steady as it can get. “You have been my very own, ah…” he gives a soft giggle, “well, _guardian demon_ , I suppose _,_ for quite some time now. Haven’t you, my dear?”

* * *

Yes, he has. 

Crowley has been watching over Aziraphale for a long time now, doing his utmost best to protect him from any harm. Silently, patiently, unwaveringly. But to hear it spelled out like this...

Crowley _burns_. His face and his throat and his chest and his whole body. He must be emitting love like a fucking furnace and he can’t make himself stop. He loves Aziraphale so much, too much. He’s always loved him, and it is an honour to get to be the one who’s allowed to look after him, the one who’ll take care of him as he deserves.

“Aziraphale,” he says, completely choked up and not able to help himself one bit. Damn it all to hell. “Get up there.” He nods towards the open glass case.

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows but smiles soon after, a little mischievous glint in his eye as he accepts Crowley’s hand to help him get inside.

“Hands on the glass.” The demon asks, and Aziraphale complies after a brief moment of uncertainty.

Crowley climbs inside with him, plastering himself against the angel’s back, nudging his legs open with a knee. He feels a torrent of words pushing at the gates of his teeth and swallows them back down, not trusting himself to speak. He closes his eyes and buries in nose against the angel’s nape. _I promise to make you feel so good you’ll forget your own blessed name. Just like you do to me – look at me, Aziraphale. I’m a mess. And it is all your doing._

Now that the enclosure has been broken Crowley has his powers back, thankfully – so he can skip all the awkward fumbling and sneak a hand between their bodies, teasing Aziraphale’s entrance with two slick fingers.

The angel moans, sticking his arse out a little bit further. Crowley leaves a kiss behind his ear, grinning into his curls.

He takes his time, one finger dipping in and out, toying with the angel for a few, long minutes. Aziraphale doesn’t like to be made to wait and whines, pushes back against the demon’s hand. Crowley presses in two fingers and sucks in a breath when they go in without any resistance at all. Fuck, how long has Aziraphale been ready for him? When did he even— 

“ _Ah_ , Crowley, _now_ …”

Crowley bites into his lower lip, trying his best to stay focused. Despite Aziraphale’s protests, he explores the angel’s body at his own leisure, carefully studying each and every sound his lover makes, the quivering of his breaths, the slight arch of his back, increasing all the more as he melts against the demon’s hand. Gradually, Aziraphale loses all self-control as he shifts back, angling his hips and making a choked, high sound whenever Crowley’s fingers manage to hit his sweet spot. It’s all Crowley can do to follow his lead, try and give him everything he needs, even as his arm starts to tingle and his cock aches to be touched once again.

Aziraphale’s hands have slid down several inches, leaving faint imprints on the glass. In his dazed state, it takes Crowley a blink or two to realise the angel is now completely bent over, looking at him from over a shoulder, his lips trembling with a request that he can’t quite put into words – not while relentlessly fucking himself on Crowley’s hand, at least. And, if Crowley knows him well enough, Aziraphale likes this way too much and won’t stop, not until it feels so good, he’ll keep going as long as there’s pleasure to be found. It’s up to Crowley, then, to decide it’s time to pull out his fingers and align their bodies, both hands on Aziraphale’s waist as he starts to push in.

From the first time they’ve done this, he’s been stunned by how good, how natural it feels. Barely touching for thousands of years and then finding out they fit so flawlessly against each other – this knowledge almost broke him. Nothing can rival this feeling. Out loud, he’d call this ‘having sex’, or ‘fucking’, or whatever other expression that allows him to put some emotional distance between himself and what they’re doing – which he desperately needs to do, because he can’t be a choked up mess all the time, not if he wants to function at all in his day-to-day life. 

But, in his heart of hearts, he can’t fool himself. He knows this is making love. Aziraphale has told him enough times. And Crowley, really – he didn’t even need to be told in the first place.

He puts a hand flat on the small of the angel’s back, grabs at Aziraphale’s side with the other, closes his eyes and attunes himself to the shifting of his lover’s body. It’s no different from flying, this – he has to be completely aware of his surroundings even as the exhilarating urge to let go bubbles up in his chest. He has to listen to every sound just as he would pay close attention to the winds. His muscles tense, trying to work with the current rather than against it. When he finds the perfect angle, and the angel replies with a broken sob, Crowley’s wings unfurl behind him, pressed against the walls on either side of them. His growl gets lost in the whooshing sound of Aziraphale’s own wings appearing in response. Finally, after so much time, the two of them are perfectly in synch.

It’s all downhill from there, in the best of ways. Crowley ignores his own aching need and keeps thrusting, laser-focused on Aziraphale like he’s never been focused on anything in his life. Finally, he manages to find just the right speed and position that allow him to draw sob after sob out of the angel’s lips. His lips curl into a smirk the angel can’t see. _Yes. Yes. Just like that._

Aziraphale’s nails scrape against the glass, finding nothing to hold onto and Crowley grips him tighter, giving it to him best as he can, until the blessed moment when the angel goes completely silent and clenches around him _hard_ , and _fuck_ , he almost loses it as Aziraphale comes with a keen that rattles through Crowley’s cotton filled brain and annihilates every last coherent thought. And then Aziraphale pushes back again, and Crowley’s orgasm is ripped out of him with a force that knocks the air out of his lungs and makes him shudder from the top of his spine all the way down to his toes. 

It’s only when he’s done that he realises he’s sunk his teeth into the angel’s skin, right above a shoulder blade. Pulling back, he rests his cheek against the soft white feathers of Aziraphale’s wings for a moment, breaths in.

“Sorry.” He rasps. Aziraphale shakes his head a little, as if it doesn’t even matter, even though Crowley can clearly see the angry red mark on his skin.

He pulls out slowly, electing not to think about the wetness dripping down Aziraphale’s thighs for the sake of his own battered sanity. He lowers himself to the floor.

He leaves the pillow to Aziraphale, sitting back on his own haunches on the cold obsidian. The angel settles down, making that particular kind of sigh he reserves for after a particularly satisfying meal, filling Crowley with a sweet, warm sense of pride.

“Is everything all right, my dearest?” Crowley does not realise he’s clinging to Aziraphale until the angel’s question shakes him out of his thoughts. He has, indeed, a hand around the angel’s (gorgeous) ankle and another on his (luscious) thigh. He quickly moves to retract them.

“Ah, yes, sorry, I didn’t—”

Aziraphale grabs both of his hands, bringing the knuckles up to his lips and kissing them. “I owe you an apology, Crowley. I thought… I did not realise this little game would bring back unpleasant memories.”

“S’alright.” Crowley shrugs. “It surprised me too.”

“What about if I leave the bookshop closed a little longer and we get in bed? Would you let me spend some time burrowing under the covers with you?”

Crowley isn’t dumb; he can read between the lines. What Aziraphale is actually asking is: _can I make it up to you any way at all? Would you like to spend some time cuddling with me?_ But, of course, Crowley would turn it down if it were phrased like that.

“Yes. Fine.” He rolls his eyes a bit, just for show. “I’ll let you. Come on.”

As they stand up, Aziraphale glances towards Crowley’s phone on the floor. “Ah, and do you think… you don’t reckon I could hold on to the pictures you sent me, maybe?”

Crowley smiles from ear to ear, shamelessly basking in the idea that the angel wants to keep filthy pictures of him. “’Course. They’re for you.” He pulls Aziraphale into a tight embrace, kissing him smack on the lips. “I could even send you some more, y’know? At one condition.”

“And what is that?” Aziraphale asks, grinning into their kiss.

“That you send me some of your own.”

The angel makes a mock-offended noise and giggles in his lover’s arms. And Crowley holds him tight, silently promising to himself that he won’t let anything, anything at all keep them apart from now on.

* * *

It’s about a week later that the bell above the bookshop’s door chimes and Ron comes in, this time without his two friends.

“Oh, hello dear.” Aziraphale greets him. “How have you—”

Ron shrieks when he spots Crowley causally sprawled on a couch. The demon rolls his eyes and sighs.

“Uh, listen…” Crowley starts, but Aziraphale interrupts him.

“I’m afraid there has been a terrible misunderstanding.” The angel makes his way towards the young human, handling him a mug of piping hot cocoa with just a sprinkle of cinnamon. Ron, dumbly, takes it. “I checked again, you see. And that was not at all a demon-summoning spell! It was only a spell to trap the wickedest human in the room inside a glass case.” Crowley, from the couch, shouts a ‘ _hey!’_ in their general direction. “You don’t need to be worried about a thing, my dear. Well, except Crowley’s terrible conduct, of course, but I’ll take care of that myself.”

“Oh.” Much to the angel’s surprise, Ron slumps his shoulder, glancing back at Crowley with a disappointed look.

“Is… is something the matter?” Aziraphale asks.

“Uh, well, this is going to sound very dumb now, Mr Fell, but I… I was seriously considering getting into demonology… making a career out of it, you know?” Ron replies with a pout.

Crowley jumps off the couch, quickly walking up to them, a big grin on his face. “Really? You’d do that?”

Ron nods. “I want to drop out of school and try out this path instead.”

Aziraphale looks at him alarmed, then shoots Crowley a glance, raising both eyebrows. _Do something._

“Uh…” Crowley looks from Ron to Aziraphale and back again. “What is it that you were studying again?”

“Mechanical engineering.”

“Oh, yuck, yeah, definitely drop ou—” Aziraphale’s sharp glare makes him stutter. “Uh, that is, I mean… it would definitely be a shame to drop out, then.”

“Really, Mr. Crowley? You truly think so?” Ron asks, and Aziraphale pins Crowley down with a stare.

The demon sighs. “Yes, I truly think so. Drink your cocoa and get your homework out. I have some time to spare. We’ll figure it out. When’s your next test?”

In the end, Aziraphale decides, the coffeehouse next door is neither a good thing nor a bad one. It’s just a human thing. So it is, by definition, both bad and good. It brings in the bookshop more young people for Crowley to interact with, and more for Aziraphale to tolerate, but there’s something to be said about watching his demon chattering away, so animated and content.

And, sometimes, as Crowley is distracting a student from their homework or helping them plan how to break into their professor’s office and steal the answers to their upcoming exam… the demon looks up, and their eyes meet. And Crowley gives him a little lovesick smile, and Aziraphale’s heart feels full to bursting, and maybe – he can get used to this. Having Crowley around, every single day. Even if it upheaves his old, boring life just a tiny bit. 

Maybe, exactly because it does.

**Author's Note:**

> [Art for Crowley's first selfie is here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20950613/chapters/52011487) omg omg omg look!!! 😍😍😍
> 
> 🔹
> 
> Special thanks to the wonderful [Ingthing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ingthing/pseuds/ingthing) for looking this over and also for this:
> 
>   
> `**ingthing**`  
> ` Please have him come on the glass I guarantee it'll make a reader discorporate`
> 
> ` **chamyl**`  
> ` hahajshdajshd okay okay duly noted`  
> 
> 
> So, was she right? You guys still with me?
> 
> (as always y’all have blanket permission and are in fact strongly encouraged to podfic/illustrate/whatever this!!! just drop me a link because I want to see)


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